SEiPS 

AND 

HAVENS 

VAN#YKE 




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Bpi|mi:5^anBpfee 

I. PILGRIMS OF THE SEA.t«f »f 

OF all the things that man has made, 
none is so full of interest and charm, 
none possesses so distinct a life and 
character of its own, as a ship. 
"Ships are but boards," says Shylock in "The 
Merchant of Venice." But we feel that this is 
a thoroughly wooden opinion, one of those 
literal judgments which stick to the facts 
and miss the truth. Ships have something 
more in them than the timbers of which they 
are made. Human thought and human labor 
and human love, — the designer's clever con- 
ception, the builder's patient toil, the explor- 
er's daring venture, the merchant's costly 
enterprise, the sailor's loyal affection, the 
traveller's hopes and fears, — all the manifold 
sympathies of humanity, inform the dumb pil- 
grims of the sea with a human quality. There 
is a spirit within their oaken ribs, a signifi- 
cance in their strange histories. 
The common language in which we speak of 
them is an unconscious confession of this 
feeling. We say of a ship, "She sails well. 
She minds her helm quickly. The wind is 
against her, but she makes good headway. 
We wish her a prosperous voyage." We en- 
dow her with personality; and, as if to ac- 
knowledge the full measure of our interest, 

I 



|)ip0 anb f|at3en0 

we express it in terms which belong to the 
more interesting sex. 

One reason for this is undoubtedly the fact 
that the ship appears to us as a traveller to 
an unseen, and often an unknown, haven. It 
is the element of mystery, of adventure, of 
movement towards a secret goal, that fasci- 
nates our imagination, and draws our sympa- 
thy after it. When this is wanting, the ship 
loses something of her enchantment. 
There is a little cottage where I have spent 
many summers on the sleepy southern shore 
of Long Island. From the white porch we 
could look out upon a shallow, land-locked 
bay. There we saw, on every sunny day, a 
score of sailboats, flickering to and fro on the 
bright circle of water in swallow-flights, with 
no aim but their own motion in the pleasant 
breeze. It was a flock of little play-ships, — a 
pretty sight, but it brought no stir to the 
thought, no thrill to the emotions. 
From the upper windows of the house the 
outlook surpassed a long line of ragged sand- 
dunes, and ranged across 
The unplumbed, salt, estranging sea. 
There went the real ships, of all shapes and 
sizes, of all rigs and models; the great steam- 
ers, building an airy pillar of cloud by day, a 
flashing pillar of fire by night; the ragged 
coasters, with their patched and dingy sails; 
the slim, swift yachts, hurrying by in gala 
dress, as if in haste to arrive at some distant, 

2 



^ilgrim0 of tt^t giea 

merry festival of Neptune's court. Sometimes 
they passed in groups, like flights of plover; 
sometimes in single file, like a flock of wild 
swans; sometimes separate and lonely, one 
appearing and vanishing before the next hove 
in sight. 

When the wind was from the north they hugged 
the shore. With a glass one could see the 
wrinkled, weather-beaten face of the man at the 
wheel, and the short pipe smoking between 
his lips. When the wind was southerly and 
strong they kept far away, creeping slowly 
along the rim of the horizon. On a fair breeze 
they dashed along, wing and wing, with easy, 
level motion. When the wind was contrary 
they came beating in and out, close-hauled, 
tossing and laboring over the waves. It was 
a vision of endless variety and delight. But 
behind it all, giving life and interest to the 
scene, was the invisible thought of the desired 
haven. 

Whither is she travelling, that long, four- 
masted schooner, with all her sails set to 
catch the fickle northwest breeze? Is it in 
some languid bay of the West Indies, or in 
some rocky harbor of Patagonia, amid the 
rigors of the far southern winter, that she will 
cast anchor? Where is she bound, that dark 
little tramp-steamer, trailing voluminous black 
smoke behind her, and buffeting her way to 
the eastward in the teeth of the rising gale? 
Is it in some sunlit port among the bare pur- 

3 



|)ip0 anb f|a^tn0 

pie hills of Spain, or in the cool shadows of 
some forest-clad Norwegian fiord, that she 
will find her moorings? Whither away, ye 
ships? What haven ? 

How often, and how exquisitely, this question 
of ships and havens has been expressed by 
the poets (in prose and verse), who translate 
our thoughts for us. Longfellow recalls a dream 
of his childhood in the seaport town of Ports- 
mouth : — 

I remember the black wharves and the slips, 
And the sea-tides tossing free; 
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, 
And the beauty and mystery of the ships. 
And the magic of the sea. 
And the voice of that wajrward song 
Is singing and saying still : 
"A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

George William Curtis wanders down to the 
Battery, and meditates on "Sea from Shore": 
"The sails were shaken out, and the ship be- 
gan to move. It was a fair breeze perhaps, and 
no steamer was needed to tow her away. She 
receded down the bay. Friends turned back, — 
I could not see them, — and waved their hands, 
and wiped their eyes, and went home to din- 
ner. Farther and farther from the ships at an- 
chor, the lessening vessel became single and 
solitary upon the water. The sun sank in the 
west; but I watched her still. Every flash of 
4 



pilgrims of tjje giea 

her sails, as she tacked and turned, thrilled 
my heart. ... I did not know the consignees 
nor the name of the vessel. I had shipped no 
adventure, nor risked any insurance, nor made 
any bet, but my eyes clung to her as Ariadne's 
to the fading sail of Theseus." 
And here is a bit of Rudyard Kipling's gusty 
music from "The Seven Seas": — 
The Liner she 's a lady, an' she never looks 
nor 'eeds — 

The Man-'o-War's 'er 'usband, an* 'e gives 'er 
all she needs; 

But, oh, the little cargo-boats, that sail the 
wet seas roun', 

They're just the same as you and me, a-plyin' 
up an' down! 

But it is Wordsworth, the most intimate and 
searching interpreter of delicate, half-formed 
emotions, who has given the best expression 
to the feeling that rises within us at sight of 
a journeying ship : — 

With ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh 
Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed; 
Some lying fast at anchor in the road. 
Some veering up and down, one knew not why. 
A goodly Vessel did I then espy 
Come like a giant from a haven broad; 
And lustily along the bay she strode. 
Her tackling rich, and of apparel high. 
This Ship was naught to me, nor I to her. 
Yet I pursued her with a Lover's look; 
This Ship to all the rest I did prefer: 

5 



When will she turn, and whither? She will brook 

No tarrying : where she comes the winds must 

stir; 

On went she, and due north her journey took. 

Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must 
go? 

Fresh as a lark mounting* at break of day 
Festively she puts forth in trim array; 
Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow? 
What boots the inquiry ?-~Neither friend nor 
foe 

She cares for; let her travel where she may 
She finds familiar friends, a beaten way 
Ever before her, and a wind to blow. 
Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark? 
And, almost as it was when ships were rare, 
(From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and 
there 

Crossing the waters), doubt, and something 
dark. 

Of the old Sea some reverential fear 
Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark! 
And is not this a parable, beautiful and sug- 
gestive, of the way in which we look out, in 
our thoughtful moods, upon the ocean of hu- 
man life, and the men and women who are 
voyaging upon it? In them also the deepest 
element of interest is that they are in motion. 
They are all going somewhither. They are not 
stationary objects in our view. They are not 
6 



pilgrims of t|)t giea 

even, in this aspect, parts of the great tide of 
being in which they float. They are distinct, 
individual, separate. We single them out one 
by one. Each one is a voyager, with a port to 
seek, a course to run, a fortune to experience. 
The most interesting question that we can 
ask in regard to them is : Whither bound? 
What haven ? 

But this inquiry comes to us now not as an 
idle or a curious question. For, first of all, we 
feel that these men and women are not stran- 
gers to us. We know why we take a personal 
interest in one more than in another. We 
know why we "pursue them with a lover's 
look." It is as if the "joyous Bark" carried 
some one that we knew, as if we could see a 
familiar face above the bulwarks, and hear a 
well-beloved voice hailing us across the waves. 
And then we realize that we also are en voy- 
age. We do not stand on the shore as specta- 
tors; we, too, are out on the ocean, sailing. 
All the "reverential fear of the old Sea," the 
peril, the mystery, the charm, of the voyage, 
come home to our own experience. The ques- 
tion becomes pressing, urgent, importunate, 
as we enter into the depth of its meaning. 
Surely there is nothing that we can ever ask 
ourselves in which we have a closer, deeper 
interest, or to which we need to find a clearer, 
truer answer, than this simple, direct ques- 
tion: What is our desired haven in the ven- 
turesome voyage of life? 




!)ip0 mh f|a^en0 

11. WHITHER BOUND? ftt'lffff 

want to talk with you about this ques- 
tion in this little book, as a writer may 
talk with a reader across the unknown 
intervals of time and space. The book that 
does not really speak to you is not worth much. 
And unless you really hear something, and 
make some kind of an answer to it, you do 
not truly read. 

There is a disadvantage, of course, in the fact 
that you and I do not know each other and 
speak face to face. Who you are, into whose 
hands this book has come, I cannot tell. And 
to you, I am nothing but a name. Where you 
may be, while you turn these pages, I cannot 
guess. Perhaps you are sitting in your own 
quiet room after a hard day's work ; perhaps 
you are reading aloud in some circle of friends 
around the open fire; perhaps you are in the 
quiet woods, or out in the pleasant orchard 
under your favorite tree; perhaps you are ac- 
tually on the deck of a ship travelling across 
the waters. It is strange and wonderful to 
think of the many different places into which 
the words that I am now writing in this lonely, 
book-lined study may come, and of the many 
different eyes that may read them. 
But wherever you are, and whoever you may 
be, there is one thing in which you and I are 
just alike, at this moment, and in all the mo- 
ments of our existence. We are not at rest; 
8 



we are on a journey. Our life is not a mere 
fact; it is a movement, a tendency, a steady, 
ceaseless progress towards an unseen goal. 
We are gaining something, or losing some- 
thing, every day. Even when our position and 
our character seem to remain precisely the 
same, they are changing. For the mere ad- 
vance of time is a change. It is not the same 
thing to have a bare field in January and in 
July. The season makes the difference. The 
limitations that are childlike in the child are 
childish in the man. 

Everything that we do is a step in one direc- 
tion or another. Even the failure to do some- 
thing is in itself a deed. It sets us forward or 
backward. The action of the negative pole of 
a magnetic needle is just as real as the action 
of the positive pole. To decline is to accept— 
the other alternative. 

Are you richer to-day than you were yester- 
day? No? Then you are a little poorer. Are 
you better to-day than you were yesterday? 
No? Then you are a little worse. Are you 
nearer to your port to-day than you were yes- 
terday? Yes,— you must be a little nearer to 
some port or other ; for since your ship was 
first launched upon the sea of life, you have 
never been still for a single moment; the sea 
is too deep, you could not find an anchorage if 
you would; there can be no pause until you 
come into port. 

But what is it, then, the haven towards which 

9 



you are making? What is the goal that you de- 
sire and hope to reach? What is the end of life 
towards which you are drifting or steering? 
There are three ways in which we may look at 
this question, depending upon the point of view 
from which we regard human existence. 
When we think of it as a work, the question 
is, "What do we desire to accomplish?" 
When we think of it as a growth, a develop- 
ment, a personal unfolding, the question is, 
"What do we desire to become?" 
When we think of it as an experience, a de- 
stiny, the question is, "What do we desire to 
become of us?" 

Do not imagine for an instant that these ques- 
tions can be really separated. They are inter- 
woven. They cross each other from end to end 
of the web of life. The answer to one question 
determines the answer to the others. We can- 
not divide our work from ourselves, nor isolate 
our future from our qualities. A ship might as 
well try to sail north with her jib, and east with 
her foresail, and south with her mainsail, as a 
man to go one way in conduct, and another way 
in character, and another way in destiny. 
What we do belongs to what we are ; and what 
we are is what becomes of us. 
And yet, as a matter of fact, there is a differ- 
ence in these three standpoints from which 
we may look at our life; and this difference 
not only makes a little variation in the view 
that we take of our existence, but also influ- 

10 



ences unconsciously our manner of thinking 
and speaking about it. Most of the misunder- 
standings that arise when we are talking about 
life come from a failure to remember this. We 
are looking at the same thing, but we are look- 
ing from opposite corners of the room. We are 
discussing the same subject, but in different 
dialects. 

Some people — perhaps the majority — are of 
a practical turn of mind. Life seems to them 
principally an affair of definite labor directed 
to certain positive results. They are usually 
thinking about what they are to do in the 
world, and what they are to get for it. It is a 
question of occupation, of accomplishment, of 
work and wages. 

Other people— and I think almost all serious- 
minded people when they are young, and life 
still appears fresh and wonderful to them — 
regard their existence from the standpoint of 
sentiment, of feeling, of personality. They have 
their favorite characters in history or fiction, 
whom they admire and try to imitate. They 
have their ideals, which they seek and hope to 
realize. Some vision of triumph over obstacles, 
and victory over enemies, some model of man- 
hood or womanhood, shines before them. By 
that standard they test and measure them- 
selves. Towards that end they direct their ef- 
forts. The question of life, for them, is a ques- 
tion of attainment, of self-discipline, of self- 
development. 

II 



Other people — and I suppose we may say all 
people at some time or other in their expe- 
rience — catch a glimpse of life in still wider 
and more mysterious relations. They see that 
it is not really, for any one of us, an independent 
and self-centred and self-controlled affair. They 
feel that its issues run out far beyond what we 
can see in this world. They have a deep sense 
of a future state of being towards which we are 
all inevitably moving. This movement cannot 
be a matter of chance. It must be under law, 
under responsibility, under guidance. It cannot 
be a matter of indifference to us. It ought to 
be the object of our most earnest concern, our 
most careful choice, our most determined en- 
deavor. If there is a port beyond the horizon, 
we should know where it lies and how to win 
it. And so the question of life, in these profound 
moods which come to all of us, presents itself 
as a question of eternal destiny. 
Now, if we are to understand each other, if we 
are to get a view of the subject which shall be 
anything like a well-rounded view, a complete 
viewj we must look at the question from all 
three sides. We must ask ourselves: What is 
our desired haven, first, in achievement; and 
second, in character; and last, in destiny? 



12 




Wift^siMtn of W^tk 

III. THE kAVEN OF WORK. t##f f f 
URELY we ought to know what it is 
that we really want to do in the world, 
what practical result we desire to ac- 
complish with our lives. And this is a question 
which it will be very wise to ask and answer 
before we determine what particular means 
we shall use in order to perform our chosen 
work and to secure the desired result. A man 
ought to know what he proposes to make be- 
fore he selects and prepares his tools. A cap- 
tain should have a clear idea of what port he 
is to reach before he attempts to lay his course 
and determine his manner of sailing. 
All these minor questions of ways and means 
must come afterwards. They cannot be settled 
at the outset. They depend on circumstances. 
They change with the seasons. There are many 
paths to the same end. One may be best to- 
day; another may be best to-morrow. The wind 
and the tide make a difference. One way may 
be best for you, another way for me. The build 
of the ship must be taken into consideration, 
A flat-bottomed craft does best in the shallow 
water, along shore. A deep keel is for the open 
sea. 

But before we make up our minds how to steer 
from day to day, we must know where we are 
going in the long run. Then we can shape our 
course to fit our purpose. We can learn how 
to meet emergencies as they arise. We can 

13 



|)ip0 anir 5B|atjen0 

change our direction to avoid obstacles and 
dangers. We can take a roundabout way if 
need be. If we keep the thought of our desired 
haven clearly before us, all the other points 
can be more easily and wisely settled; and 
however devious and difficult the voyage may 
be, it will be a success when we get there. 
I am quite sure that a great deal of the confu- 
sion and perplexity of youth, and a great deal 
of the restlessness and fickleness which older 
people often criticise so severely and so un- 
justly, come from the attempt to choose an 
occupation in life before the greater question 
of the real object of our life-work has been 
fairly faced and settled. "What are you going 
to do when you grow up ?" This is the favorite 
conundrum which the kind aunts and uncles 
put to the boys when they come home from 
school ; and of late they are beginning to put 
it to the girls also, since it has been reluc- 
tantly admitted that a girl may rightly have 
something to say about what she would like 
to do in the world. But how is it possible to 
make anything more than a blind guess at the 
answer, unless the boy or the girl has some 
idea of the practical end which is to be worked 
for. To choose a trade, a business, a profession, 
without knowing what kind of a result you 
want to get out of your labor, is to set sail in 
the dark. It is to have a course, but no haven; 
an employment, but no vocation. 
There are really only four great practical ends 
14 



for which men and women can work in this 
world, — Pleasure, Wealth, Fame, and Useful- 
ness. We owe it to ourselves to consider them 
carefully, and to make up our minds which of 
them is to be our chief object in life. 
Pleasure is one aim in life, and there are a 
great many people who are fbllowing it, con- 
sciously or unconsciously, as the main end of 
all their efforts. Now, pleasure is a word which 
has a double meaning. It may mean the satis- 
faction of all the normal desires of our man- 
hood in their due proportion, and in this sense 
it is a high and noble end. There is a pleasure 
in the intelligent exercise of all our faculties, 
in the friendship of nature, in the perception 
of truth, in the generosity of love, in the achieve- 
ments of heroism, in the deeds of beneficence, 
in the triumphs of self-sacrifice. "It is not to 
taste sweet things," says Carlyle, "but to do 
true and noble things, and vindicate himself 
under God's Heaven as a God-made man, that 
the poorest son of Adam dimly longs. Show him 
the way of doing that, the dullest day-drudge 
kindles into a hero." 

But pleasure as we commonly speak of it means 
something very different from this. It denotes 
the immediate gratification of our physical 
senses and appetites and inclinations. There 
is a free gift of pleasant sensation attached by 
the Creator to the fulfilment of our natural 
propensions. The taking of food, for example, 
not only nourishes the body, but also gratifies 

15 



flips aub J^at3tn0 

the palate; the quenching of thirst is agree- 
able to the senses as well as necessary to the 
maintenance of life. No sane and wholesome 
thinker has ventured to deny that it is lawful 
and wise to receive this gratuitous gift of 
pleasure, and rejoice in it, as it comes to us 
in this world wherein God has caused to grow 
** every tree that is pleasant to the sight and 
good for food." But when we make the recep- 
tion of the agreeable sensation the chief end 
and motive of our action, when we direct our 
will and our effort to the attainment of this 
end, then we enter upon a pleasure-seeking 
life. We make that which should be our ser- 
vant to refresh and cheer us, our master to 
direct and rule and drive us. 
The evil nature of this transformation is sug- 
gested in the very names which we give to 
human conduct in which the gratification of 
the senses has become the controlling purpose. 
The man who lives for the sake of the enjoy- 
ment that he gets out of eating and drinking 
is a glutton or a drunkard. The man who mea- 
sures the success and happiness of his life by 
its physical sensations, whether they be coarse 
and brutal or delicate and refined, is a volup- 
tuary. 

A pleasure-seeking life, in this sense, when we 
think of it clearly and carefully, is one which 
has no real end or goal outside of itself. Its 
aim is unreal and transitory, a passing thrill 
in nerves that decay, an experience that leads 
i6 



nowhere, and leaves nothing behind it. Robert 
Burns knew the truth of what he wrote:— 
But pleasures are like poppies spread, 
You seize the flower, the bloom is shed! 
The man who chooses pleasure as the object 
of his life has no real haven, but is like a boat 
that beats up and down and drifts to and fro, 
merely to feel the motion of the waves and the 
impulse of the wind. When the voyage of life 
is done he has reached no port, he has accom- 
plished nothing. 

One of the wisest of the ancients, the Stoic 
philosopher Seneca, wrote a letter to his bro- 
ther Gallio (the Roman governor before whom 
St. Paul was tried in Corinth), in which he 
speaks very frankly about the folly of a volup- 
tuous life. " Those who have permitted plea- 
sure to lead the van . . . lose virtue altogether; 
and yet they do not possess pleasure, but are 
possessed by it, and are either tortured by its 
absence, or choked by its excess, being wretched 
if deserted by it, and yet more wretched if over- 
whelmed by it; like those who are caught in 
the shoals of the Syrtes, and at one time are 
stranded on dry ground, and at another tossed 
on the furious billows. ... As we hunt wild 
beasts with toil and peril, and even when they 
are caught find them an anxious possession, 
for they often tear their keepers to pieces, even 
so are great pleasures; they turn out to be 
great evils, and take their owners prisoner." 
This is the voice of human prudence and phi- 

17 



losophy. The voice of religion is even more clear 
and piercing. St. Paul says of the pleasure- 
seekers: "Whose end is destruction, whose 
god is their belly, whose glory is their shame, 
who mind earthly things." And in another place, 
lest we should forget that this is as true of 
women as it is of men, he says: "She that liv- 
eth in pleasure is dead while she liveth." That 
saying is profoundly true. It goes to the bot- 
tom of the subject. A pleasure-seeking life is 
a living death, because its object perishes even 
while it is attained, and at the end nothing is 
left of it but dust and corruption. 
Think of the result of existence in the man or 
woman who has lived chiefly to gratify the phy- 
sical appetites; think of its real emptiness, its 
real repulsiveness, when old age comes, and 
the senses are dulled, and the roses have faded, 
and the lamps at the banquet are smoking and 
expiring, and desire fails, and all that remains 
is the fierce, insatiable, uglycravingfor delights 
which have fled forevermore; think of the bit- 
ter, burning vacancy of such an end, — and you 
must see that pleasure is not a good haven to 
seek in the voyage of life. 
But what of wealth as a desired haven? When 
we attempt to consider this subject we have 
especial need to follow Dr. Samuel Johnson's 
blunt advice and "clear our minds of cant." 
There is a great deal of foolish railing against 
wealth, which takes for granted, now that it 
is an unsubstantial and illusory good, and now 
i8 



Wift f|a\)m of WBoxh 

that it is not a good at all, but only an unmixed 
evil, and the root of all other evils. Many 
preachers and moralists talk about wealth in 
this way, but they do not really think about it 
in this way. They know better. And when young 
people discover and observe the curious incon- 
sistency between the teacher's words and his 
thoughts, as illuminated by his conduct, they 
are likely to experience a sense of disappoint- 
ment, and a serious revulsion from doctrine 
which does not seem to be sincere. 
Wealth is simply the visible result of human 
labor, or of the utilization of natural forces 
and products, in such a form that it can be 
exchanged. A gallon of water in a mountain 
lake is not wealth. But the same gallon of 
water conveyed through an aqueduct and de- 
livered in the heart of a great city represents 
a certain amount of wealth, because it has a 
value in relation to the wants of men. A tree 
growing in an inaccessible forest is not wealth. 
But a stick of timber which can be delivered 
in a place where men are building houses is a 
bit of wealth. 

Now, the symbol and measure of wealth is 
money. It is the common standard by which the 
value of different commodities is estimated, and 
the means by which they are exchanged. It 
is not a dream nor a delusion. It is something 
real and solid. It is deserving of our respect 
under certain conditions and within certain 
limitations. The man who professes an abso- 

19 



^!)ip0 anil f|a\)en0 

lute contempt for money is either a little of a 
fool or a good deal of a fraud. It represents a 
product of labor and a form of power. It is 
worth working for. When a man has won it, 
there it is — a fact and a force. He can handle 
it, use it, dispose of it, as he chooses. 
But stop a moment; let us think! Is that alto- 
gether true? It is partly true, no doubt; for 
every particle of wealth, or of its symbol, 
money, is an actual possession of which its 
owner can dispose. But it is not the whole 
truth; for the fact is that he must dispose of 
it, because that is the only way in which it be- 
comes available as wealth. A piece of money 
in an old stocking is no more than a leaf upon 
a tree. It is only when the coin is taken out 
and used that it becomes of value. And the 
nature of the value depends upon the quality 
of the use. 

Moreover, it is not true that a man can dispose 
of his money as he chooses. The purposes for 
which it can be used are strictly bounded. 
There are many things that he cannot buy 
with it; for example, health, long life, wisdom, 
a cheerful spirit, a clear conscience, peace of 
mind, a contented heart. 
You never see the stock called Happiness 
quoted on the exchange. How high would it 
range, think you, — a hundred shares of Hap- 
piness Preferred, guaranteed seven per cent, 
seller thirty ? 
And there are some things that a man cannot 

20 



'€^t ^a.tim of WBotk 

do with his wealth. For instance, he cannot 
carry it with him when he dies. No system of 
transfer has been established between the two 
worlds; and a large balance here does not mean 
a balance on the other side of the grave. The 
property of Dives did not fall in value when 
he died, and yet he became a pauper in the 
twinkling of an eye. 

There is no question but that those who live 
to win wealth in this world have a more real 
and substantial end in view than the mere plea- 
sure-seekers. But the thing that we ought to 
understand and remember is precisely what 
that end is. It is the acquisition in our hands of 
a certain thing whose possession is very brief, 
and whose value depends entirely upon the use 
to which it is put. Now, if we make the mere 
gaining of that thing the desired haven of our 
life, we certainly spend our strength for naught, 
and our labor for that which satisfieth not. We 
narrow and contract our whole existence. We 
degrade it by making it terminate upon some- 
thing which is only a sign, a symbol, behind 
which we see no worthy and enduring reality. 
It is for this reason that the "blind vice" of 
avarice, as Juvenal calls it, has been particu- 
larly despised by the wise of all lands and ages. 
There is no other fault that so quickly makes 
the heart small and hard. 
They soon grow old who grope for gold 
In marts where all is bought and sold; 
Who live for self, and on some shelf 

21 



g>|iijp0 anil Hatjens 

In darkened vaults hoard up their pelf; 

Cankered and crusted o*er with mould, 

For them their youth itself is old. 
Nor is there any other service that appears 
more unprofitable and ridiculous in the end, 
when the reward for which the money-maker 
has given his life is stripped away from him 
with a single touch, and he is left with his 
trouble for his pains. 

If thou art rich, thou'rt poor; 
For like an ass whose back with ingots bows, 
Thou bear'st thy heavy burden but a journey, 
And death unloads thee. 
But perhaps you imagine that no one is in dan- 
ger of making that mistake, no one is so foolish 
as to seek wealth merely for its own sake. Do 
you think so? Then, what shall we say of that 
large class of men, so prominent and so influ- 
ential in modern society, whose energies are 
desperately consecrated to the winning of great 
fortunes? 

So far as their life speaks for them, they have 
no real ambition beyond that. They are not the 
leaders in noble causes, the sustainers of be- 
neficent enterprises. They have no refined and 
elevated tastes to gratify. They are not the pto- 
moters of art or science, the adorners of their 
city with splendid buildings, the supporters of 
humane and beautiful charities. They have no 
large plans, no high and generous purposes. 
They have no public spirit, only an intense 
private greed. All that we can say of them is 

22 



that they are rich, and that they evidently want 
to be richer. 

They sit like gigantic fowls brooding: upon nests 
of golden eggs, which never hatch. Their one 
desire is not to bring anything out of the eggs, 
but to get more eggs into their nest. It is a 
form of lunacy — auromania. 
But let us not suppose that these notorious 
examples are the only ones who are touched 
with this insanity. It is just the same in the 
man who is embittered by failure, as in the man 
who is elated by success ; just the same in those 
who make it the chief end of life to raise their 
hundreds of dollars to thousands, as in those 
who express their ambition in terms of seven 
figures. Covetousness is idolatry of wealth. It 
may be paid to a little idol as well as to a big 
one. Avarice may be married to Poverty, and 
then its offspring is named Envy; or it maybe 
married to Riches, and then its children are 
called Purse-pride and Meanness. Some peo- 
ple sell their lives for heaps of treasure, and 
some for a scant thirty pieces of silver, and 
some for nothing better than a promissory note 
of fortune, without endorsement. 
There are multitudes of people in the world 
to-day who are steering and sailing for Ophir, 
simply because it is the land of gold. What 
will they do if they reach their desired haven? 
They do not know. They do not even ask the 
question. They will be rich. They will sit down 
on their gold. 

23 



Let us look our desires squarely in the face ! 
To win riches, to have a certain balance in the 
bank, and a certain rating on the exchange, 
is a real object, a definite object; but it is a 
frightfully small object for the devotion of a 
human life, and a bitterly disappointing reward 
for the loss of an immortal soul. If wealth is 
our desired haven, we may be sure that it will 
not satisfy us when we reach it. 
Well, then, what shall we say of fame as the 
chief end of life? Here, again, we must be care- 
ful to discriminate between the thing itself and 
other things which are often confused with it. 
Fame is simply what our fellow-men think and 
say of us. It may be world-wide ; it may only 
reach to a single country or city; it may be 
confined to a narrow circle of society. Trans- 
lated in one way, fame is glory; translated in 
another way, it is merely notoriety. It is a thing 
which exists, of course; for the thoughts of 
other people about us are just as actual as our 
thoughts about ourselves, or as the character 
and conduct with which those thoughts are 
concerned. But the three things do not always 
correspond. 

You remember what Dr. Oliver Wendell 
Holmes says, in "The Autocrat of the Break- 
fast-Table," about the three Johns: — 

1. The real John ; known only to his Maker. 

2. John's ideal John ; never the real one, and 
often very unlike him. 



24 



3. Thomas's ideal John; never the real John, 
nor John's John, but often very unlike either. 
Now, the particular object of the life that makes 
fame its goal is this last John. Its success con- 
sists in the report of other people's thoughts 
and remarks about us. Bare, naked fame, how- 
ever great it may be, can never bring us any- 
thing more than an instantaneous photograph 
of the way we look to other men. 
Consider what it is worth. It may be good or 
bad, flattering or painfully truthful. People are 
celebrated sometimes for their vices, sometimes 
for their follies. Anything out of the ordinary 
line will attract notice. Notoriety may be pur- 
chased by a colossal extravagance or a monu- 
mental absurdity. A person has been made 
notorious simply by showing himself "more 
kinds of a fool" than any one else in the com- 
munity. 

Many men would be famous for their vanity 
alone, if it were not so common that it no 
longer serves as a mark of distinction. We 
often fancy that we are occupying a large place 
in the attention of the world, when really we 
do not even fill a pin-hole. 
To be governed in our course of life by a tim- 
orous consideration of what the world will 
think of us, is to be even lighter and more fickle 
than a weathercock. It is to be blown about by 
winds so small and slight that they could not 
even lift a straw outside of our own versatile 



25 



^|)ip0 aub i|atien0 

imagination. For what is "the world,^'for whose 
admiration, or envy, or mere notice, we are 
willing to give so much? "Mount up," says a 
wise man, "in a monomania of vanity, the num- 
ber of those who bestow some passing thought 
upon you, as high as you dare; and what is 
this 'world' but a very few miserable items of 
human existence, which, when they disappear, 
none will miss, any more than they will miss 
thyself?" 

There is one point in which fame differs very 
essentially from wealth and pleasure. If it 
comes to us without being well-earned it can- 
not possibly be enjoyed. A pleasure may arrive 
by chance, and still it will be pleasant. A sum 
of money may be won by a gambler, and still 
it is real money; he can spend it as he pleases. 
But fame without a corresponding merit is sim- 
ply an unmitigated burden. I cannot imagine 
a more miserable position than that of the poor 
scribbler who allowed his acquaintances to con- 
gratulate him as the writer of George Eliot's 
early stories. To have the name of great wis- 
dom, and at the same time to be a very foolish 
person, is to walk through the world in a suit 
of armor so much too big and too heavy for 
you that it makes every step a painful effort. 
To have a fine reputation and a mean character 
is to live a lie and die a sham. And this is the 
danger to which every one who seeks directly 
and primarily for fame is exposed. 
One thing is certain in regard to fame : for most 
26 



of US it will be very brief in itself; for all of us 
it will be transient in our enjoyment of it. 
When death has dropped the curtain we shall 
hear no more applause. And though we fondly 
dream that it will continue after we have left 
the stage, we do not realize how quickly it will 
die away in silence, while the audience turns to 
look at the new actor and the next scene. Our 
position in society will be filled as soon as it is 
vacated, and our name remembered only for a 
moment, — except, please God, by a few who 
have learned to love us, not because of fame, 
but because we have helped them and done 
them some good. 

This thought brings us, you see, within clear 
sight of the fourth practical aim in life, — the 
one end that is really worth working for,— 
usefulness. To desire and strive to be of some 
service to the world, to aim at doing something 
which shall really increase the happiness and 
welfare and virtue of mankind, — this is a choice 
which is possible for all of us; and surely it is 
a good haven to sail for. 
The more we think of it, the more attractive 
and desirable it becomes. To do some work 
that is needed, and to do it thoroughly well; 
to make our toil count for something in adding 
to the sum total of what is actually profitable 
for humanity; to make two blades of grass grow 
where one grew before, or, better still, to make 
one wholesome idea take root in a mind that 
was bare and fallow; to make our example 

27 



count for something on the side of honesty, 
and cheerfulness, and courage, and good faith, 
and love, — this is an aim for life which is very- 
wide, as wide as the world, and yet very defi- 
nite, as clear as light. It is not in the least 
vague. It is only free; it has the power to em- 
body itself in a thousand forms without chan- 
gingits character. Those who seekitknowwhat 
it means, however it may be expressed. It is 
real and genuine and satisfying. There is noth- 
ing beyond it, because there can be no higher 
practical result of effort. It is the translation, 
through many languages, of the true, divine 
purpose of all the work and labor that is done 
beneath the sun, into one final, universal word. 
It is the active consciousness of personal har- 
mony with the will of God who worketh hith- 
erto. 

To have this for the chief aim in life ennobles 
and dignifies all that it touches. Wealth that 
comes as the reward of usefulness can be ac- 
cepted with honor; and, consecrated to further 
usefulness, it becomes royal. Fame that comes 
from noble service, the gratitude of men, be 
they few or many, to one who has done them 
good, is true glory; and the influence that it 
brings is as near to godlike power as anything 
that man can attain. But whether these tem- 
poral rewards are bestowed upon us or not, 
the real desire of the soul is satisfied just in 
being useful. The pleasantest word that a man 
can hear at the close of the day, whispered in 
28 



secret to his soul, is "Well done, good and 
faithful servant!" 

Christ tells us this: "He that loseth his life 
shall find it" "Whosoever will be great among 
you, let him be your minister; and whosoever 
will be chief among you, let him be your ser- 
vant." 

Life is divine when duty is a joy. 
Do we accept these sailing orders? Is it really 
the desired haven of all our activity to do some 
good in the world; to carry our share of the 
great world's burden which must be borne, to 
bring our lading of treasure, be it small or great, 
safely into the port of usefulness? I wonder 
how many of us have faced the question and 
settled it. It goes very deep. 



>!)ip0 anil Havens 

IV. THE HAVEN OF CHARACTER. #f 

BUT deeper still the question goes when 
we look at it in another light. Our life 
is made up, not of actions alone, but 
of thoughts and feelings and habitual affec- 
tions. These taken all together constitute what 
we call our present character. In their tenden- 
cies and impulses and dominant desires they 
constitute our future character, towards which 
we are moving as a ship to her haven. 
What is it, then, for you and me, this intimate 
ideal, this distant self, this hidden form of per- 
sonality which is our goal? 
I am sure that we do not often enough put the 
problem clearly before us in this shape. We all 
dream of the future, especially when we are 
young. 

A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts. 

But our dreams are too much like the modern 
stage, full of elaborate scenery and machinery, 
crowded with startling effects and brilliant 
costumes and magical transformations, but 
strangely vacant of all real character. 
The stuff of which our day-dreams are made 
is for the most part of very cheap material. 
We seldom weave into them the threads of 
our inmost spiritual life. We build castles in 
Spain, and forecast adventures in Bohemia. 
But the castle is without a real master. The 
hero of the adventure is vague and misty. We 
30 



CijellatjenofCljaratter 

do not clearly recognize his face, or know what 
is in his heart. 

We picture ourselves as living here or there; 
we imagine ourselves as members of a certain 
circle of society, taking our places among the 
rich, the powerful, the "smart set." We fancy 
ourselves going through the various experi- 
ences of life, a fortunate marriage, a successful 
business career, a literary triumph, a political 
victory. Or perhaps, if our imagination is of a 
more sombre type, we foreshadow ourselves 
in circumstances of defeat and disappointment 
and adversity. But in all these reveries we do 
not really think deeply of our Selves. We do 
not stay to ask what manner of men and wo- 
man we shall be, when we are living here or 
there, or doing thus or so. 
Yet it is an important question. Very much 
more important, in fact, than the thousand and 
one trifling interrogatories about the future 
with which we amuse our idle hours. 
And the strange thing is, that, though our 
ideal of future character is so often hidden from 
us, overlooked, forgotten, it is always there, 
and always potently, though unconsciously, 
shaping our course in life. "Every one," says 
Cervantes, " is the son of his own works." But 
his works do not come out of the air, by chance. 
They are wrought out in a secret, instinctive 
harmony with a conception of character which 
we inwardly acknowledge as possible and 
likely for us. 

31 



^|)ip0 anil |ia))tn0 

When we choose between two linesof conduct, 
between a mean action and a noble one, we 
choose also between two persons, both bear- 
ing our name, the one representing: what is 
best in us, the other embodying what is worst. 
When we vacillate and alternate between them, 
we veer, as the man in Robert Louis Steven- 
son's story veered, between Dr. Jekyll and Mr. 
Hyde. 

We say that we "make up our minds," to do 
a certain thing or not to do it, to resist a cer- 
tain temptation or to yield to it. It is true. We 
"make up our minds" in a deeper sense than 
we remember. In every case the ultimate de- 
cision is between two future selves, one with 
whom the virtue is harmonious, another with 
whom the vice is consistent. To one of these 
two figures, dimly concealed behind the action, 
we move forward. What we forget is, that, 
when the forward step is taken, the shadow 
will be myself. Character is eternal destiny. 
There is a profound remark in George Eliot's 
"Middlemarch" which throws light far down 
into the abyss of many a lost life. "We are on 
a perilous margin when we begin to look pas- 
sively at our future selves, and see our own 
figures led with dull consent into insipid mis- 
doing and shabby achievement." But there is 
a brighter side to this same truth of life phi- 
losophy. We are on a path which leads upward, 
by sure and steady steps, when we begin to 
look at our future selves with eyes of noble 
32 



hope and clear purpose, and see our figures 
climbing, with patient, dauntless effort, towards 
the heights of true manhood and womanhood. 
Visions like these are Joseph's dreams. They 
are stars for guidance. They are sheaves of 
promise. The very memory of them, if we cher- 
ish it, is a power of pure restraint and gener- 
ous inspiration. 

Oh for a new generation of day-dreamers, 
young men and maidens who shall behold vis- 
ions, idealists who shall see themselves as the 
heroes of coming conflicts, the heroines of yet 
unwritten epics of triumphant compassion and 
stainless love. From their hearts shall spring 
the renaissance of faith and hope. The ancient 
charm of true romance shall flow forth again 
to glorify the world in the brightness of their 
ardent eyes, — 

The light that never was on land or sea, 
The consecration and the poet's dream. 
As they go out from the fair gardens of a vis- 
ionary youth into the wide, confused, turbulent 
field of life, they will bring with them the march- 
ing music of a high resolve. They will strive 
to fulfil the fine prophecy of their own best de- 
sires. They will not ask whether life is worth 
living, — they will make it so. They will trans- 
form the sordid "struggle for existence" into 
a glorious effort to become that which they 
have admired and loved. 
But such a new generation is possible only 
through the regenerating power of the truth 

33 



that "a man's life consisteth not in. the abun- 
dance of the things that he possesseth." We 
must learn to recognize the real realities, and 
to hold them far above the perishing trappings 
of existence which men call real. 
The glory of our life below 
Comes not from what we do or what we know, 
But dwells forevermore in what we are. 
"He only is advancing in life," says John Rus- 
kin, "whose heart is getting softer, whose blood 
warmer, whose brain quicker, whose spirit is 
entering into Living peace. And the men who 
have this life in them are the true lords or 
kings of the earth — they, and they only." 
Now I think you can see what is meant by this 
question of the desired haven in character. 
What manner of men and women do we truly 
hope and wish to become? 
The number of ideals seems infinite. But, after 
all, there are only two great types. St. Paul 
calls them "the carnal" and "the spiritual;" 
and I know of no better names. 
The carnal type of character, weak or strong, 
clever or stupid, is always self-ruled, governed 
by its own appetites and passions, seeking its 
own ends, and, even when conformed to some 
outward law or code of honor, obedient only 
because it finds its own advantage or comfort 
therein. There is many a man who stands up- 
right only because the pressure of the crowd 
makes it inconvenient for him to stoop. "The 
churl in spirit" may speak fair words because 
34 



of those who hear; but in his heart he says the 
thing: that pleases him, which is vile. 
The spiritual type of character is divinely ruled, 
submissive to a higher law, doing another will 
than its own, seeking the ends of virtue and 
holiness and unselfish love. It may have many 
inward struggles, many defeats, many bitter 
renunciations and regrets. It may appear far 
less peaceful, orderly, self-satisfied, than some 
of those who are secretly following the other 
ideal. Many a saint in the making seems to be 
marred by faults and conflicts from which the 
smug, careful, reputable sensualist is exempt. 
The difference between the two is not one of 
position. It is one of direction. The one, how- 
ever high he stands, is moving down. The 
other, however low he starts, is moving up. 
We all know who it is that stands at the very 
summitofthespiritualpathway,— Jesus Christ, 
the Son of God, who became a perfect man, 
leaving us an example that we should follow 
in his steps. We know, too, the steps in which 
he trod,— obedience, devotion, purity, truthful- 
ness, kindness, resistance of temptation, self- 
sacrifice. And we know the result of following 
him, until we come, in the unity of the faith and 
of the knowledge of the Son of God, unto a 
perfect manhood, unto the measure of the 
stature of the fulness of Christ. 
Which type of character do we honestly desire 
and expect to reach? Let us not indulge in any 
delusions about it. Just as surely as our faces 

35 



]^ip0 anb ^a\3en0 

are hardening: into a certain expression, ugly 
or pleasant, and our bodies are moving towards 
acertain condition of health, sound or diseased, 
so surely are our souls moving towards a cer- 
tain type of character. Along which line are we 
looking and steering? Along the line that leads 
to an older, grayer, stiffer likeness of our pre- 
sent selves, with all our selfishness and pride 
and impurity and inconsistency and discontent 
confirmed and hardened? Or the line that ends 
in likeness to Christ? 

Surely we are voyaging blindly unless we know 
what haven of character our souls are seek- 
ing. Surely we are making a mad and base and 
fatal choice, unless we direct our course to the 
highest and the noblest goal. To know Christ 
is life eternal. To become like Christ is success 
everlasting. 



36 



V. THE LAST PORT.ftf fff f f f f 

4^^ 1 'HERE is still one more way of putting 
m I this question about our desired haven, 
\^^\^ — a way perhaps more common than 
the others, and therefore probably more nat- 
ural, though I cannot believe that it is more 
important. It is, in fact, simply a carrying on 
of the first two questions beyond the horizon 
of mortal sight, a prolongation of the voyage 
of life upon the ocean of eternity. 
Almost all of us have an expectation, however 
dim and misty, of an existence of some kind 
after we have crossed the bar of death. Even 
those who do not believe that this existence 
will be conscious, those who suppose that death 
ends all, so far as our thought and feeling are 
concerned, and that the soul goes out when 
the heart stops, — even the doubters of immor- 
tality foresee a certain kind of a haven for their 
lives in the deep, dreamless, endless sleep of 
oblivion. There is no one now living who does 
not owe a clear and definite answer to the 
question: Where do you wish and expect to 
go when you die? 

Now, I am quite sure that we have no right 
to try to separate this question of our haven 
after death from the questions in regard to our 
present aspirations and efforts in conduct and 
character. For every one who considers it so- 
berly must see that our future destiny cannot 
possibly be anything else than the reward and 
consequence of our present life. Whether it be 

37 



^i)ijp0 anil flattens 

a state of spiritual blessedness, or an experi- 
ence of spiritual woe, or simply a blank ex- 
tinction, it will come as the result of the deeds 
done in the body. It will be the fitting and in- 
evitable arrival at agoal towardswhichwehave 
been moving in all our actions, and for which 
we have been preparing ourselves by all the se- 
cret affections and hopes and beliefs which we 
are daily working into our characters. 
But there is a reason, after all, and a very pro- 
found reason, why we should sometimes put 
this question of our desired haven after death 
in a distinct form, and why we should try to 
give a true and honest answer to it, with an 
outlook that goes beyond the grave. 
It is because the answer will certainly deter- 
mine our conduct now, and there is every 
reason to believe that it will affect the result 
hereafter. 

Men say that the future life is only a possibility, 
or at best a probability, and that it is foolish 
to waste our present existence in the consid- 
eration of problems to which the only answer 
must be a "perhaps," or "I hope so," or " I be- 
lieve so." But is it not one of the very condi- 
tions of our advance, even in this world, that 
we should be forever going forward along lines 
which lie altogether in the region of the prob- 
able, and for which we have no better security 
than our own expectation and wish that they 
shall lead us to the truth, anticipated, but as 
yet unproved and really unknown? 
38 



"So far as man stands for anything," writes 
Professor William James, the psychologist, 
in his latest book, "The Will to Believe," "and 
is productive or originative at all, his entire 
vital function may be said to have to deal with 
maybes. Not a victory is gained, not a deed of 
faithfulness or courage is done, except upon a 
maybe; not a service, not a sally of generosity, 
not a scientific exploration or experiment or 
text-book, that may not be a mistake. It is 
only by risking our persons from one hour to 
another that we live at all. And often enough 
our faith beforehand in an uncertified result 
is the only thing that makes the result come 
true. " 

Surely this is certain enough in regard to the 
difference between this present life as a dull 
and dismal struggle for the meat and drink 
that are necessary for an animal existence, 
and as a noble and beautiful conflict for moral 
and spiritual ends. It is the faith that makes 
the result come true. As a man thinketh in his 
heart, so is he, and so is his world. For those 
whose thoughts are earthly and sensual, this 
is a beasf s world. For those whose thoughts 
are high and noble and heroic, it is a hero's 
world. The strength of wishes transforms the 
very stuff of our existence, and moulds it to the 
form of our heart's inmost desire and hope. 
Why should it not be true in the world to come? 
Why should not the eternal result, as well as 
the present course, of our voyaging depend 

39 



»f)ip0 anil ^a^eng 

upon our own choice of a haven- beyond the 
grave? Christ says that it does. "Seek ye first 
the kingdom of God." "Lay not up for your- 
selves treasures upon earth, but lay up for 
yourselves treasures in heaven." 
If the immortal life is a reality, is it not reason- 
able to think that the first condition of our at- 
taining it is that we should personally wish for 
it, and strive to enter into it? And must not our 
neglect or refusal to do this be the one thing 
that will inevitably shut us out from it, and 
make our eternity an outer darkness? 
Mark you, I do not say that it is reasonable to 
suppose that we must be absolutely certain of 
the reality of heaven in order to arrive thither. 
We may have many doubts and misgivings. 
But deep down in our hearts there must be 
the wish to prove the truth of this great hope 
of an endless life with God, and the definite 
resolve to make this happy haven the end of 
all our voyaging. 

This is what the apostle means by "the power 
of an endless life." The passion of immortality 
is the thing that immortalizes our being. To 
be in love with heaven is the surest way to be 
fitted for it. Desire is the magnetic force of 
character. Character is the compass of life. 
"He that hath this hope in him purifieth him- 
self." 

Let me, then, put this question to you very 
simply and earnestly and personally. 
What is your desired haven beyond the grave? 
40 



It is for you to choose. There are no secret 
books of fate in which your course is traced, 
and your destiny irrevocably appointed. There 
is only the Lamb's book of life, in which new 
names are being written every day, as new 
hearts turn from darkness to light, and from 
the kingdom of Satan to the kingdom of God. 
No ship that sails the sea is as free to make 
for her port as you are to seek the haven that 
your inmost soul desires. And if your choice is 
right, and if your desire is real, so that you will 
steer and strive with God's help to reach the 
goal, you shall never be wrecked or lost. 
For of every soul that seeks to arrive at use- 
fulness, which is the service of Christ, and at 
holiness, which is the likeness of Christ, and 
at heaven, which is the eternal presence of 
Christ, it is written: — 

So he bringeth them unto their desired haven. 
Like unto ships far off at sea, 
Outward or homeward bound, are we. 
Before, behind, and all around. 
Floats and swings the horizon's bound, 
Seems at its distant rim to rise 
And climb the crystal wall of the skies, 
And then again to turn and sink 
As if we could slide from its outer brink. 
Ah ! it is not the sea. 
It is not the sea that sinks and shelves. 
But ourselves 
That rock and rise 
With endless and uneasy motion, 

41 



g)i)ip0 anb ||at)eu0 

Now touching the very skies, 

Now sinking into the depths of ocean« 

Ah! if our souls but poise and swing 

Like the compass in its brazen ring, 

Ever level and ever true 

To the toil and the task we have to do, 

We shall sail securely, and safely reach 

The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach 

The sights we see, and the sounds we hear, 

Will be those of joy and not of fear. 

LONGFELLOW. 



42 



